


On The Beat

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Developing Relationship, F/M, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Male Slash, Multi, Polyamory, Revenge, Songwriting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan is determined to make famous rock band The Musketeers pay, in particular lead singer Athos who once claimed credit for d'Artagnan's recently-deceased father's song. Instead, he finds himself playing lead guitar for them, finding a place with them, on stage and off. There's also a gorgeous dark-haired woman who spends many nights with him, determined to persuade him to sign with her boss as a solo act. D'Artagnan can't believe his luck, but things aren't as uncomplicated as they seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Beat

“Watch it, mate.”

A surly roadie pushed past d’Artagnan, almost causing him to drop his guitar, but he managed to save it from an abrupt meeting with the floor just in time. He quickly strode away from where the crew were setting up sound equipment on stage and bumped straight into someone else.

“God, I’m sorry…”

His words dried up, he was face to face with one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. She looked amused, then her expression sharpened into something extremely interested. She was wearing fitted jeans and a brief top that revealed a lot of cleavage and bare arm, her long dark hair pulled back from her exquisite face. d’Artagnan felt breathless just looking at her, especially as she was focused entirely on him. His day was getting better and better.

“d’Artagnan, I like your work.”

“You’ve seen me play?”

The amusement in her face grew. “The internet is a fascinating place.”

She pulled a business card out of her pocket and brushed it across his chest. d’Artagnan’s heart hammered fast, her fingers itching to start strumming and composing.

“My boss is very interested in you. Call me.”

She tucked the card into his hand and started to walk away. d’Artagnan caught a glimpse of blue flowers before her hair fell back into place, covering the neck tattoo. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

“About working together?”

She laughed, glancing back at him with a very inviting smoulder, but she didn’t disagree. d’Artagnan’s mouth watered as he watched her leave. He shoved the card into his jeans pocket. His first music industry contact, he didn’t know who she worked for but she had to be working for someone important. Small-time companies would never be able to afford somebody like her. Fuck.

There was a squeal of feedback and d’Artagnan winced, glancing towards the stage and the source of the noise. His mood changed abruptly; the distinctive bass guitar being tuned so audibly by a crew member could only belong to one person, to the reason that d'Artagnan had come to this show in the first place – Athos, lead singer and bassist of the Musketeers, the man who most music magazines were slobbering over, the man who’d stolen a song by d’Artagnan’s father and had then pretended to be the author of.

d’Artagnan’s father had died recently, after a slip back into alcoholism that had been horrifying to witness. It wasn’t just the booze that had killed him though; he’d been nursing a broken heart as well.

d’Artagnan scowled and headed determinedly backstage.

*

It was surprisingly quiet behind the scenes and d’Artagnan tried to look as though he belonged there. He was carrying a guitar which probably helped, as did the fact that security weren’t in position yet and the Musketeers’ manager Treville didn’t appear to be around either. d’Artagnan could hear someone strumming a familiar song on a guitar; he followed the sound until he found a half-open door. He could see Aramis, the Musketeers’ lead guitarist, bare-chested and laughing as he caressed the guitar cradled in his lap. In the dim light, he was stunning. D’Artagnan told himself to focus.

He could hear Athos’s voice, telling Aramis to stay away from Anne, for fuck’s sake. d’Artagnan saw red.

He shoved the door fully open and marched in. Everyone turned to look at him in surprise – Porthos, the drummer got to his feet, a half-empty beer bottle in hand, his intense gaze fixed burningly on d’Artagnan and there was Athos, lying on a battered-looking sofa, wearing a faded blue t-shirt, leather trousers, and a wide black wristband. His eyes were clouded, and they narrowed when taking in d’Artagnan. d’Artagnan launched himself towards the prone man.

“You…!”

He got one punch in before Athos shoved him away and Porthos and Aramis got between them. d’Artagnan struggled against them but it was no good, they weren’t going to let him hurt their friend again. d’Artagnan spat at Athos instead as the man wiped a trickle of blood from his chin. Athos waved away the security men now gathering at the door.

D’Artagnan snarled, beyond caring at this point. “Everyone’s going to know what you did, Athos. Call yourself a musician, you’re a…”

Athos held up a hand and Porthos obliging shoved one of his large palms over D’Artagnan’s mouth. D’Artagnan’s eyes widened and he renewed his efforts to claw his way free of the Musketeers’ grasp. Aramis looked merely amused.

“Lively, isn’t he?”

Athos looked tight with tension, his mouth a narrow hard line. “How about you tell me what I’ve done to warrant this before our manager has you barred from the venue permanently and probably arrested too?”

Porthos peered at d’Artagnan intensely. “And no funny business, yeah? Or it won’t just be this place you’re barred from.”

D’Artagnan thought about biting the large man’s hand but quickly dismissed the idea, it might give him satisfaction but that was probably nothing compared to what Porthos would do to him afterwards. So he sullenly nodded and Porthos and Aramis released him, though they stayed close by, clearly not trusting that he wouldn’t go for Athos again. Athos looked at him carefully, as though trying to place him, and gestured for d’Artagnan to speak.

d’Artagnan set his jaw and reached for his guitar. He felt steadier with its neck in his hand. He needed that as he told the Musketeers about Alexandre d’Artagnan, the songwriter who had never made much money from his music but who had loved writing and playing music. He’d often sent songs to record companies and was happy when someone liked one enough to record it and give him the credit and money he was due if it made it onto an album. His songs were almost always ear-catching and meaningful; Alexandre had had a great skill.

“He wrote a song a few years ago ‘Bullet to the Heart’, it was about my mother. You recorded it for one of your albums, only the song’s author, according to the sleeve notes, is Athos. It broke my father’s heart, that no one knew who it was really about, how much he loved, how much he’d poured into those words, and now he’s dead.”

There was a stunned silence, which Aramis eventually broke. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that…”

Athos was frowning. “I didn’t write that song, I never claimed I did.”

“Well, that’s what the notes and every website says,” spat d’Artagnan, his words biting and full of pain. “It killed my father, did you know that? It killed him to know that the tribute he’d written to my mother went unrecognised.”

“Hey, Athos didn’t ask for the credit,” Porthos interjected. “And he didn’t kill your dad.”

“No, but the fact that my dad fell heavily off the wagon after your _All For One_ album came out did,” shot back d’Artagnan.

There was more silence, d’Artagnan stewing and wondering because Athos really didn’t look like he knew what d’Artagnan was talking about and the others appeared just as confused. How could they not know that there was miscrediting going on? Why hadn’t they looked closer? Why hadn’t they asked for the story behind the song?

Athos shifted at last. “Do you play?”

He tipped his head towards the guitar and d’Artagnan nodded jerkily. “Of course.”

“Then show us.”

That was a command and a challenge, and d’Artagnan bristled at the veiled implication that he had a guitar with him just for show. No one was arriving to haul him out so he checked the guitar’s tuning and defiantly played the version of ‘Bullet To The Heart’ that his father had always played. D’Artagnan had heard it so many times before, he conjured up his mother’s face as he played and sang, effortlessly pouring memories into his performance. Here was his father’s pain and overwhelming love for d’Artagnan’s mother. Tears trickled down d’Artagnan’s face.

When his voice faded away on the last note, there was a noticeable pause. He glanced up to see Aramis recording him on his phone with a grin. Porthos was watching him like he was trying to work something out and Athos, Athos’s gaze _burned_. d’Artagnan swallowed down a shiver.

“If your father played as well as you, he was very gifted indeed,” Athos told him quietly.

d’Artagnan nodded, unable to say anything past the lump in his throat. He wiped away his tears, and got to his feet. Aramis pocketed the phone, his grin still present.

“Don’t run off just yet. We might have good news for you.”

d’Artagnan looked confused, a state he was jolted out of when Porthos slapped him on the back hard enough to send d’Artagnan reeling. Athos almost smiled, his eyes were clear though and intense.

“We need another guitarist. Tonight’s your audition.”

*

He didn’t have much time to prepare but Aramis cheerfully told him that he’d shown Treville the video of d’Artagnan performing backstage and that Treville had okayed him for performing tonight at least. Their last guitarist had left to join up with another band.

“And it’s not like we miss him, the moody prick,” Prothos muttered.

“Mmm, only room for one of those in this band,” added Aramis, gesturing towards Athos.

d’Artagnan frowned, glad to have distraction from his thoughts because _holy fuck, he was going to perform with The Musketeers tonight_. He’d heard rumours about Athos’s temperament, that it wasn’t just an act for the stage and for journalists. He really did spend most of his time brooding.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asked quietly.

Porthos raised his eyebrows, which managed to look both casual and threatening. “A broken heart, that’s all he ever says.”

d’Artagnan didn’t have time to think about Athos for much longer, he had a set-list to look through – yes, he knew all those songs, he’d learned all the Musketeers’s stuff, loving their work until his dad had revealed one drunken night just why he’d taken to living in a bottle again. d'Artagnan's throat constricted when he saw that someone had penned in ‘Bullet To The Heart,’ it clearly hadn’t been on the list originally.

He thought he glimpsed that girl again – dark-haired, pale-skinned, eyes flashing – amongst the crowd of security and crew working feverishly, but when he looked again she was gone. The business card felt like it was burning in his pocket.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

That was Porthos, stripped to the waist, wearing obligatory black leather trousers, checking his drum set up one last time. He eyed D’Artagnan again, the intensity in his dark eyes and the easy skill of his hands making something clench in D’Artagnan’s chest. He looked away quickly but nodded.

“Believe me, I don’t want to.”

Porthos laughed loudly, and D’Artagnan glanced back to admire the tattoo of playing cards that decorated one of Porthos's pecs. The tattoo was bright with colour, the King of Diamonds brightest of all in blood red, black, and yellow. d’Artagnan tore his gaze away, and found that Porthos was looking back at him, tongue running over teeth contemplatively.

d’Artagnan flushed and resisted the urge to tweet that he was playing with the fucking Musketeers tonight. All his friends were miles away back home anyway and tweeting that kind of thing was what got people fired, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to lose this gig before it’d even started.

The stage lights flashed on suddenly, the heat of them making his eyes water.

_Hey Dad, I’m going to play with the Musketeers. We’re going to do your song justice._

Athos clapped a hand to his shoulder; he was wearing smudges of eyeliner now and a lot of rubber bracelets around his wrists. There was a tattoo of a thin-bladed sword flowing down his bicep, a scroll of words at the handle. d’Artagnan had the strongest urge to move closer so that he could try to read it.

“You’ll be fine.”

That sounded like a warning. D’Artagnan swallowed but focused on his guitar. Somehow, having the others there with him as they got themselves ready soothed his ragged edges. He bowed his head and concentrated. No matter what, this wasn't a chance he was going to waste. He wasn’t going to fuck this up.

*

The venue seemed to explode with sound from the moment the Musketeers appeared on stage. Athos played his bass with abandonment but still somehow kept himself tightly closed off. It was Aramis who truly interacted with the fans, sweeping a hand down to touch their waving fingers, blowing kisses to the screaming girls, flinging used plectrums out to them, encouraging them to clap and sing along. Porthos was a force of nature behind the drumkit, the spine of everything they played.

And d’Artagnan was in the middle of it all.

It took him a couple of songs to get comfortable but he didn’t try to hog Aramis’s spotlight or muscle in on Athos’s territory. He concentrated on the music, on how it made him feel. He thought about his father, the joy he'd always gotten from playing and from hearing his songs played. d’Artagnan threw back his head and absorbed it all.

Athos shot him complicated looks now and then and at one point, Aramis slung an arm around d'Artagnan's neck and pulled him close. d'Artagnan hoped, wildly, that Aramis couldn't hear the rapid beat of his heart, or the way that his breath stuttered at Aramis's touch.

Towards the end of the concert, Athos signalled for quiet from the crowd, a command that they surprisingly obeyed, bar one or two whoops. He turned slightly so that he was talking to the band as well.

“We're going to play an old album song for you now, 'Bullet To The Heart'.”

There were shouts of approval from the crowd and d'Artagnan swallowed hard, hoping that he didn't look too shellshocked. Athos caught his eye, his expression still full of the controlled intensity that D'Artagnan found so captivating.

“It was written by a talented man named Alexandre d'Artagnan, about the gift and pain of great love.”

d'Artagnan wished that he knew what to say, his breathing felt choked and hoarse. He couldn't look away from Athos whose eyes weren't clouded or guarded in that moment, they were full of pain, the pain of great love. Then Athos turned back to the crowd, Porthos counted them in, and they were playing d'Artagnan's father's song. d'Artagnan focused on his strings, that way no one would see the wetness in his eyes.

When the song and concert finished, and Aramis began declaring his love for several members of the audience, Athos brushed past d'Artagnan, their gazes catching for a moment. d'Artagnan didn't know what to say, he tried to say 'thank you' and Athos nodded briefly like he knew.

Porthos clapped a heavy hand to d'Artagnan's shoulder and drew him close, his impressive body slick with sweat but somehow d'Artagnan wasn't put off by the smell. Instead, he leaned into Porthos's sturdy figure, an action that didn't get him shoved away. Porthos just held him close for a handful of moments, then roughly ruffled his hair.

“Audition passed,” he announced.

d'Artagnan blinked out of his stupor. “Really? That easy?”

Porthos laughed, a wide laugh that showed off his teeth. “Easy? We've gone through three guitarists this year already.”

Right. D'Artagnan managed a smile, catching sight of Aramis talking animatedly to a couple of pretty girls from the audience, one redheaded and one blonde, both dark-eyed and eager. Athos was nowhere to be seen.

*

Treville, the Musketeers's manager, was a broad-shouldered older man with a serious air that got him mocked by Aramis but all three of the Musketeers clearly respected him. He looked d'Artagnan up and down.

“You played well. You're free for the next few months?”

“Yes!...Yes, definitely.”

d'Artagnan knew that he sounded overeager but he couldn't stop himself. He could play with the Musketeers, with men he admired, men who hadn't cheated and broken his father – d'Artagnan believed that much now, after Athos's onstage kindness.

Treville smiled slightly. “No parents I have to talk to? Nobody's going to claim kidnapping if you do this?”

d'Artagnan tossed him his wallet. “I'm nineteen. And my parents are dead. Nobody'll look for me.”

Treville glanced at the wallet's contents and nodded quietly to himself before handing it back. “Your father's song, that lies with our record company. I can't promise we'll get his name on reissues of All For One, but we'll try.”

That was more than d'Artagnan had expected, he nodded, overwhelmed and grateful. “Thank you.”

Treville looked at him silently for a moment and then held out his hand. “Nine shows, if you can handle that and the road inbetween, we'll have a contract drawn up.”

d'Artagnan shook his hand without hesitation, it was fair enough. He knew that some bands wouldn't even do that much, some bands would have pushed him to sign with them immediately before he'd had a chance to really look over terms. He knew people who'd gotten royally screwed that way. Well, he couldn't exactly ask for a contract for his possible contract, could he? This verbal agreement was good enough for now. If he got nine shows of playing with The Musketeers, nine shows of singing his father's song, then that was something. It’d get him a reputation in the industry at least, and he could build on that.

Treville went back to his papers and laptop. He was clearly substantially busy. “Be on the bus by 1am, we'll leave whether you're onboard or not.”

d'Artagnan obeyed the silent dismissal and checked that his bag was still where he'd left it backstage, yes, he had a couple of changes of clothes with him plus all the essentials for a quick trip. Maybe he could buy more clothes on the road? He could hear Aramis's laughter carrying from somewhere; Porthos was sat with a few of security, playing cards. Athos...Athos was carrying a bottle in each hand as he headed for the room the band had occupied before the show. He didn't even look d'Artagnan's way.

A hand touched D'Artagnan's shoulder, then skimmed down his arm. The woman from before, bright-eyed and pleased, stood beside him. She wore a black velvet jacket and was stood so close that D'Artagnan could smell her perfume.

“You were brilliant,” she told him, admiration and heat smouldering in her expression.

D'Artagnan smiled, that performing adrenaline still vivid under his skin. “Thanks, it was amazing.”

“ _You_ were amazing.” She pressed closer, her voice hot in his ear. “Let me show you how amazing...”

She stepped away, holding his gaze for a moment before walking off without a backward glance. D'Artagnan stared after her for a second, then hastened to catch up.

“I need to be back by 1am...”

The woman laughed. “Tied to a schedule already? Think of what you could do solo.”

D'Artagnan frowned, he'd seen what working solo had done to his father, and anyway, he'd liked performing with the Musketeers. How could he walk away from that? He didn't have time to voice his thoughts though because he was being led into a nearby building, a B&B, and up into a room where the woman peeled off her jacket, revealing a bare back. D'Artagnan reached out, then paused.

“I'm sorry, I don’t know your name.”

The woman curved a look at him over her shoulder, then turned, getting close enough to speak against his lips.

“Milady.”

Then she kissed him, and she tasted of cinnamon and burnt sugar.

*

Someone shouted and d'Artagnan's eyes snapped open. The bed was empty except for him. He frowned, squinted even, but there was no one there. He was alone. Only the smell of her perfume remained. d'Artagnan breathed it in, pressing his face briefly to the pillow beside his.

Then he scrambled for his phone, still in his abandoned jeans pocket, and shot to his feet. It was 12.55am. Shit.

He pulled his clothes on with breathless speed, double-checked that he still had everything in his pockets, and then ran for the exit. God, his bag was still backstage, and his guitar! No, he had to get to the bus. There it was, an enormous black beast of a vehicle, and there was Treville, waiting just outside it.

12.59am

d'Artagnan skidded to a wild halt in front of the manager. “I'm sorry, I...”

Treville held his hand up. “You're here, that's all that matters. Your gear's onboard. Load it yourself next time.”

d'Artagnan dragged in a deep breath, his lungs felt like they were on fire, and quickly jumped onto the bus. It was almost spacious and there was a very irritated man behind the wheel who introduced himself as Bonacieux, reeling off a list of rules for the bus. d'Artagnan tried to pay attention, but a beautiful woman with curves and lovely eyes was handing Bonacieux a cup of strong-smelling coffee. She looked at d'Artagnan like she was mentally measuring him for something.

“My wife, Constance,” Bonacieux explained, squeezing her hand in thanks.

Constance's smile was tight and the way she stood close to her husband spoke volumes. d'Artagnan gave his name, Constance shook her head.

“Another boy here to play at being a rock star.”

d'Artagnan's eyebrows shot up but then Aramis entered the bus, very obvious love bites splattered across his neck. He smiled broadly at Constance.

“Lovely to receive your smile and judgement as always.”

Constance's expression narrowed and her hand darted out but Aramis stepped out of her way with a laugh. “Please don't spit in my coffee.”

“My spit's too good for you.”

d'Artagnan made himself scarce, it sounded like an old argument anyway. Why was Constance working with a rock band if she didn't like them? Was the money that good? Did she just want to be with her husband? Porthos was sat on a boxy sofa as Treville got onboard, the door closing behind him. They were off.

Before d'Artagnan could continue exploring the bus, Porthos grasped his wrist and pulled him down to sit on the sofa too. It was a tight fit, but Porthos draped a heavy arm around d'Artagnan and it wasn't uncomfortable at all. The drummer smelled heavily of whiskey.

“The only rule you have to remember – no fucking groupies on the bus,” Porthos told him seriously.

d'Artagnan watched as Aramis approached, apparently done with socialising with the fans for now. Aramis smiled down at them both.

“A good night all round, I'd say.”

“You would,” Porthos retorted, before jerking his head towards the back of the bus.

Aramis's grin softened and he nodded before retreating to a curtained-off area at the back. D'Artagnan watched him leave, unable to look away from Aramis's model-like beauty and the charm so often on show. Porthos chuckled, squeezing a hand around the back of d'Artagnan's neck. d'Artagnan shivered.

“There's a bunk free back there, for when you want it,” Porthos told him, his breath hot and liquored.

d'Artagnan could feel his body responding and quickly got to his feet. Now was not the time for his long-term ‘admiration’ of the Musketeers to become incredibly obvious. Porthos watched him, his eyes dark and hungry but not mocking. D'Artagnan retreated behind the curtain.

There were narrow bunks built into the bus, lining the walls. It was easy to see which was d'Artagnan’s, his bag and guitar were piled on top of it. Only one bunk had its curtain drawn, Athos's most likely. And...d'Artagnan froze in place; he could hear skin on skin and what was almost certainly kissing. Aramis and Athos?

He scrambled onto his bunk and pulled the curtain shut, his heart pounding and his body heating up all over. Maybe they didn't know he was there, he wanted to give them privacy anyway and...he unzipped his trousers and slid a hand in to grasp his eagerly hardening cock. He could still hear the noises; he tried to hold his breath so that he didn't miss anything. Fuck, this was hot. His hand moved firmly, he kept all of his own sounds to himself. He closed his eyes, arching his back, his mind filled with vivid possibilities – Aramis and Athos somehow intertwined on the sparse bunk space, Athos scraping his teeth against the marks Aramis already bore, Aramis's clever tongue put to good use, a lot of bare tattooed skin.

Someone was panting and D'Artagnan realised that it was him. He didn't care at this point, his grip tightened and his pace increased. Were Aramis's lips around Athos's cock? Or were they mouth to mouth, hands eager on each other, bringing one another to the edge and then...d'Artagnan gasped and tried to catch all of the hot spill that rushed over his fingers. He scrabbled in his bag for something to clean himself up with. The sounds in the other bank had crested and were now silent. After a moment, there was talking, too quiet to properly make out. D'Artagnan lay there, trying to get his breathing back to normal and to still his racing thoughts.

Fuck.

*

Breakfast was bacon rolls and coffee or tea. Constance made it for them and smacked Aramis when he made a lewd comment. Treville didn't seem concerned, drinking a well-sugared tea and checking his laptop, his brow furrowed.

Athos looked tired, bruises under his eyes. Porthos handed him a couple of bacon rolls and clapped him on the shoulder. Athos gripped his hand in thanks and ate silently, scribbling something down on a piece of paper. Aramis sang the praises of the girls he'd met the previous night. D'Artagnan thought about what _he'd_ done the previous night, with Milady and by himself. He tried not to glow too much.

His phone beeped with a message _We could be so good together. M._

Milady? d'Artagnan frowned and sent her a reply _I nearly missed my bus, why didn't you wake me?_

_I had somewhere to be too. Think about my offer. My boss pays very well._

“D'Artagnan.”

Treville was asking for his attention so d'Artagnan put his phone away and listened, a strong cup of tea in his hands.

“I've been in touch with Richelieu, about your father's song. He says if you can prove it was written by your father then that's how it'll be credited from now on.”

D'Artagnan's heart leapt and he nodded. “There's videos on YouTube of my dad performing it, the upload date will prove that he wrote it before the album was released.”

Treville nodded, a glimmer of something in his expression. “The bus leaves at the same time every night.”

“Sometimes, we even stay in hotels,” added Porthos, taking a drink from Athos's cup and grimacing at the taste.

“Sometimes,” agreed Treville. “Show d'Artagnan the ropes and keep him out of trouble.”

“Yes, leave all the trouble to me,” Aramis smiled lasciviously.

D'Artagnan thought about the noises he'd enjoyed the previous night and quickly focused on his tea. When he looked up again, Athos was staring at him, a slight frown on his face as though he was trying to figure something out. Constance arriving with another tray of rolls broke up the moment.

It took a little while longer for d'Artagnan to persuade his heart to calm down.

*

D'Artagnan was careful with his tweets. He mentioned that he was touring, listing the nine cities that he'd be performing in, and when someone mentioned that The Musketeers had shows scheduled for the very same cities, he encouraged people to attend their gigs.

Then someone tweeted a photo of him on stage with The Musketeers, Aramis's arm around him, d'Artagnan smiling broadly at him, a definitely excited somewhat dazed look on his face. Okay then.

_It’s a temporary gig right now. Come support us if you can_ __

D’Artagnan paused his tweeting, because he could hear someone playing a song on the guitar. He recognised Athos’s style, but not the song. Slowly, he drew back the curtain that shielded his bunk; there was Athos, singing softly almost under his breath, sheets of paper spread out around him.

“She said promise me we’ll never be parted…”

He stopped and crossed something out on one of the papers, glancing up at d’Artagnan who felt as though he’d interrupted something very private.

“Sorry, I…I can go?”

Athos didn’t say anything, his inky fingers continuing to manipulate the guitar strings. He hummed quietly and d’Artagnan listened spellbound until Athos put the guitar down.

“Is it for the next album?” d’Artagnan was unable to stop himself from asking.

Athos shook his head. “It’s an old song, and it’s not for sale.”

It really was something private. D’Artagnan slipped off his bunk and headed towards the tiny kitchen area, offering to bring back tea for Athos, an offer Athos declined. D’Artagnan paused, looking at Athos, wanting to take a picture – of Athos’s stark expression, his troubled handsome looks, one hand rubbing at his ever-present leather wristband. D’Artagnan cleared his throat instead.

“What’s it called?”

Athos let out a breath, reaching for his bunk's curtain as he answered “Forget-Me-Not.”

*

The next couple of gigs were a blur. D’Artagnan watched the others, hungry to learn as they prepared and performed. Aramis introduced him on-stage, telling the audience to _form a queue if you want, there’s only so much of him to go around, ladies and gentlemen_. D’Artagnan laughed and shoved Aramis away. Aramis darted back and kissed d’Artagnan’s bare shoulder, turning to the audience with a wicked smile afterwards.

“I can reliably tell you he’s worth the trouble.”

D’Artagnan watched as Aramis romanced both men and women. On one memorable occasion he stumbled upon Aramis outside a venue, fucking a curvy brunette out of her dark purple corset. D’Artagnan couldn’t look away, from the undivided attention Aramis gave his lover to the way his hands moved down her body and the way his quick mouth worshipped her. D’Artagnan bolted before Aramis saw him though, his cock hard and his breath heavy.

Porthos played cards with anyone who was interested. When there were no takers, he played games on his phone, winning and losing and winning again. There was a scar across one of his eyes that d’Artagnan itched to ask about, but didn’t. He liked the way Porthos always sat close to him, sharing body heat and often laying his hand on the back of d’Artagnan’s neck, companionable and a little bit possessive. D’Artagnan didn’t want to lose that.

When he stepped onboard the bus one night, he found Aramis sat in Porthos lap, grinding against him, Porthos looking at him with a burning greedy intensity. They were both fully-clothed but that hardly seemed to matter. D'Artagnan wasn’t sure how to let them know he was there without disrupting the moment. It turned out he didn’t need to.

“You can watch if you like.”

Porthos’s voice was rich and matter-of-fact. He was looking right at d’Artagnan, his hands firm on Aramis’s hips. Aramis laughed breathlessly, glancing over at d’Artagnan with a happy light in his eyes.

“Or you could join us,” he revealed.

D’Artagnan gaped and then stuttered before exiting the bus quickly. No laughter followed him, they were serious. He stood against the bus for a moment, trying to catch his breath and will his cock down. His thoughts were overwhelmed by Porthos and Aramis. Athos had to know about them, apparently there was very little that the three of them didn’t share.

“I almost think you’re ignoring me.”

Milady was walking toward him. D’Artagnan felt pleased and oddly relieved to see her. He didn’t think he'd have known what to say if Athos had appeared. He let her approach and rested his hands on her waist once she was close enough. She felt good and steady under his hands.

“You’re only getting better out there,” she told him, her floral scent so tantalising.

D’Artagnan shook his head, dismissing the compliment no matter how good it was to hear. “I’m learning from them.”

Milady raised her eyebrows. “Learning how to implode messily and permanently?”

She laughed softly at d’Artagnan’s incredulous and angry expression. “Don’t tell me you think that The Musketeers will last much longer? Everyone knows about Athos’s drink problem, and about how much debt Porthos racks up when he’s not cheating at cards, and as for the amount of people who have a problem with who Aramis has slept with…”

D’Artagnan was frozen in place; did everybody really know all about that? Was that why Treville spent so much time with his laptop, was he trying to unfuck his band’s problems? Was there any way to unfuck them? Was this really just a very temporary gig? Why hadn’t anyone told d’Artagnan? Why hadn’t they been honest with him?

Milady kissed d’Artagnan, chaste at first and then deeper, pressing against him, warm and wanting. He couldn’t help but respond.

Melinda smiled knowingly, almost triumphantly. “Come on.”

D’Artagnan followed her into the night.

*

He was quiet with the band after that, no matter how much Aramis and Porthos teased him and no matter how much Athos stared. He preoccupied himself with his guitar, working on new half-formed songs and text messaging with Milady. She’d told him again that there was a place for him as a solo artist, working for her boss.

“The same record label as The Musketeers,” she’d said. “Just, under someone else’s guidance, someone who won’t self-destruct or drop you when the going gets tough.”

D’Artagnan thought about that a lot.

He performed as whole-heartedly as before, throwing himself into the music. He was moved every time his father’s song was played with his father’s name mentioned as part of Athos’s introduction. More than ever before, d’Artagnan felt connected to his father’s lyrics, to the mood and pain of that song. Losing something you loved was an ache you never lost, he knew that now. He knew how to sing it.

He couldn’t stop analysing Athos, Aramis, and Porthos. He saw how much Athos drank, how uninterested he was in anyone who flirted with him, how he only really responded to Aramis and Porthos. D’Artagnan heard them kiss more than once and when the band plus entourage stayed in a hotel, he was positive that his three bandmates shared a room. Athos never stopped gazing at d’Artagnan like he was trying to figure something out; it never stopped making d’Artagnan shiver.

He saw how Aramis fell constantly in love, adoring everyone he slept with, returning each night to the bus with marks on his body that Porthos teased him about. D’Artagnan saw how frequently Porthos gambled, how dangerous the pastime really was, how narrowly people eyed Porthos, like a target.

D’Artagnan stayed away from them, until one night Constance dragged him onto the bus when no one else was around. She shoved him towards the sofa and glowered, her hands balled into fists at her hips.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on, but it stops now.”

D’Artagnan scowled. “I don’t know what you’re…”

“Oh please, don’t patronise me. Once upon a time you looked at those idiots like they hung the moon and stars. Now, you can’t get away from them fast enough. So what’s changed?”

D’Artagnan artlessly shrugged a shoulder, feeling bruised and resentful. Surely Constance knew already? “It’s not going to last.”

“What isn’t?”

“This, all of it, the tour, The Musketeers. They’re not going to last and no one said anything. It’s all going to end badly and…”

Constance held up a hand for silence and sat down next to him, her expression softening. She really was beautiful d’Artagnan thought wistfully, he was surrounded by so many gorgeous people.

“Now you listen to me. The Musketeers might be regularly idiotic and endlessly frustrating, but one thing you can count on is their loyalty. People _always_ say that the Musketeers aren’t going to last much longer, critics were printing right that after their first album came out, but whatever happens, they’ll take care of you. You’re one of them now and if things were really bad, they would have told you. If you don’t believe anything else, believe that.”

D’Artagnan stayed silent but let her words sink in. He wanted to believe her, he really did, but he knew what he’d seen. Milady hadn't been exaggerating.

Constance got to her feet again. “You’re not the only one, you know, staring and mooning. They look back.”

She headed for the kitchen before d’Artagnan could reply. He stared after her, right up until his phone vibrated. Milady was waiting for him.

*

In the end, he talked to Treville about his worries. Treville seemed to know everything and he never bullshitted. He listened and even closed the lid of his laptop, giving d’Artagnan his full attention.

“I’m not going to pretend that things are easy for us. We’re always trying to sell albums and record more, but the Cardinal likes things to sound a certain, more commercial way and the band rarely agrees with him.”

D’Artagnan frowned, a little lost. “The Cardinal?”

Treville smiled briefly and vividly. “Richelieu didn't always work in the boardroom, he was signed to Paris as one of their artists first and he didn't use his given name. There's clips on YouTube, it was very theatrical. Now, if he had his way, he’d have total control of Paris. One day, it might happen. His spies are everywhere.”

It sounded like a joke but from Treville’s tone and expression, he was serious. Fuck.

“So why do the band stay? If there’s all that interference?”

Treville sighed. “Loyalty. The owner of Paris, Louis, signed them personally and has let them do whatever they like ever since. He’s stood by them too, through everything. That matters, so they stay.”

“But there’s still a chance that this could all end tomorrow?”

“There’ll always that chance, no matter what band you play with,” Treville replied baldly. “But frankly, you’re a Musketeer now. The others, they know who they like and who they never want to play with again. You passed all auditions with flying colours, wherever they go in the future, they’ll want you with them. They haven’t scared you off yet, have they?

D’Artagnan wet his dry lips and shook his head. “Not yet.”

Treville smiled, an actually almost warm smile. He still looked tired, but he looked relaxed too. “Good. I hope you’ll sign the contract, when it comes through.”

D’Artagnan left him, to think everything over. He almost ran into Aramis and Porthos, who eyed him carefully. They didn’t look particularly happy; they'd been like that since d’Artagnan had started pulling away. He tried to smile, because they were still incredible and after his conversation with Treville, his thoughts were shifting uncertainly again.

“I’m…working through some stuff,” he managed, wanting to give them some kind of explanation.

Porthos raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Stuff?”

“Sounds important,” added Aramis, with a ghost of a smile.

“Issues, about the future,” d’Artagnan supplied. “I’m trying to work through them anyway.”

Porthos rested a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder; d’Artagnan closed his eyes briefly at feeling the familiar warmth again. “You’re a Musketeer now, whether you like it or not.”

It wasn’t completely a threat or a promise, more like a mixture of the two. D’Artagnan smiled though and didn’t stop Aramis when he slid into d’Artagnan’s personal space and kissed him warmly on the mouth. D’Artagnan leaned into the kiss, into the combined heat of Porthos and Aramis. God, it was difficult to resist them, but he managed to pull away eventually.

It was Aramis’s turn to raise eyebrows. “More thinking?”

“Yeah.” There was a lot of regret in d’Artagnan’s voice.

“Sounds lonely.” Aramis kissed him again, almost sweetly this time. “For when you change your mind.”

Porthos smirked and brought d’Artagnan close, his mouth against d’Artagnan’s ear. “We can be patient. Sometimes.”

He bit d’Artagnan’s ear, causing d’Artagnan to yelp in surprise but then Porthos ran a large hand down d’Artagnan’s back, his mouth sucking on the pained earlobe for a moment before pulling away. The two of them looked like one of d’Artagnan’s favourite fantasies.

Right, he needed to think. He forced himself to walk away, aware of their heated stares following him. He went to get himself a drink; he was going to need it.

*

His guitar was missing, how was that possible. D’Artagnan checked the bus and then raced around the latest venue, frantically searching. He couldn’t lose his guitar; the guitar his dad had bought him.

“Looking for something?”

Athos was looking at him with concern, something that warmed d’Artagnan thoroughly.

“My guitar, I had it this morning and now it’s gone.”

Athos’s gaze swept the area. “I’ll tell the others; maybe one of the crew moved it. There’s some locals helping out today.”

D’Artagnan nodded gratefully, that was a possibility. Athos touched d’Artagnan’s lower back, a reassurance, before leaving. D’Artagnan fought back an obvious reaction; he always found it hard to look away from Athos. He wanted to ask him so many questions; he wanted to know if Athos was okay or if he needed help.

He wanted to know if Athos was going to walk away from the band before he drowned in misery and beer.

“Looking for this?”

Startled, d’Artagnan looked up. There was Milady, holding his guitar. “Where did you find that?!”

“Around,” Milady smiled at him, her body language inviting him closer. “Is there a reward?”

D’Artagnan smiled and leaned in for a kiss. Everything was so much easier with Milady. She wanted him to work with her, but she didn’t force the issue, she just always made a lot of very sensible points. She was offering him stability, something reliable. He was more than happy to follow her outside, to walk until they reached a neat-looking motel. Inside one of the nearly pleasant rooms, Milady lay on top of him, beautiful and uncomplicated.

D’Artagnan sighed, happy as she rode him. They lay beside each other afterwards, not quite talking, Milady running her hand down his chest. D’Artagnan found himself thinking about Athos’s song, the old one he kept going back to and kept secret. He hummed the melody and let loose the fragment of lyrics that he remembered.

“She said promise me we’ll never be parted…”

Milady’s hand had stopped moving, she was looking at d’Artagnan with a surprisingly raw expression on her face. Then he blinked, and it was gone. Had he imagined it?

“Where did that come from?” she asked, half-amused, half-curious.

D'Artagnan hesitated, because the song was obviously private and precious to Athos. He kept his reply vague. “An old song of Athos’s, that he won’t sell.”

Milady rolled her eyes. “Apparently it’s the only thing he won’t. He’s been selling your father’s story as part of the show every night, hasn't he?”

Her words turned over in d’Artagnan’s head as she kissed him again, her hands caressing him, her body taking him away from everything else.

*

D'Artagnan almost missed the bus again. When he got onboard, Aramis was playing his guitar, Porthos's feet resting in his lap. Porthos raised his eyebrows when he saw d'Artagnan clutching his guitar.

“It didn't grow legs and walk off then?”

D'Artagnan laughed. “Maybe it did, but my guardian angel brought it back.”

Aramis whistled suggestively. “An angel? Does she have a name?”

D'Artagnan smiled, thinking of Milady, thoughts that were private and precious to him. He waggled his eyebrows and said no more. Aramis began singing lewdly, only stopping when Constance marched in and smacked him hard in the chest. D'Aragnan smiled at her as he made his way towards the bunks.

Athos was sat on his bunk, looking like he was waiting for something or someone. The smell of alcohol wasn't too strong this time at least and his eyes were clear. D'Artagnan tried to smile, but Milady’s words still had a firm grip on his thoughts so his expression faltered as he sat down opposite Athos, unsure what to say. He still wanted to stay in Athos' presence though; he was torn between how drawn he felt to the Musketeers and Milady’s very tempting offer. It was getting more tempting the more he thought about it.

“You found it then,” Athos nodded towards the guitar.

D'Artagnan carefully laid the instrument down on his bunk. “I had help.”

Athos seemed to focus on something far away for a moment before his intense gaze fixed on d'Artagnan again, pinning him in place.

“You've handled life on tour well. I wasn't sure you would.”

D'Artagnan smiled slightly. “I wasn't sure I would either. I'm enjoying it though, the experience.”

Athos's body tensed up. “Is that all this is to you? Just an experience?”

D'Artagnan's gaze dropped, his words drying up. What could he say? That he'd gotten a better, safer, offer? That things were less complicated and confusing somewhere else? That this had been like a dream but maybe that was all it was?

There was a creak as Athos moved from his bunk to d'Artagnan's, leaving a respectful amount of space between them. D'Artagnan's heartrate picked up regardless. He hoped that Athos didn't notice his goosebumps.

There was silence for a while, not quite uncomfortable but not comfortable either. D'Artagnan still didn't know to say. Thankfully, eventually, Athos spoke.

“You're a good fit here, with us. Bonacieux hasn't threatened to leave you behind once.”

D'Artagnan's mouth twitched upwards. “Does that a lot, does he?”

“Well, usually he threatens Aramis.”

D'Artagnan laughed softly, because that wasn't a surprise at all. Aramis specialised in incisive words that weren't always welcome, he seemed to permanently get under Constance's skin. Still, it wasn't the worst quality in the world and d'Artagnan had seen what else Aramis could do, how completely he could hold an audience in the palm of his hand, how he always lavished attention on whoever he was talking to, how unashamedly tender he could be with Porthos and Athos. D'Artagnan flinched, he shouldn't be thinking about that. It was too...tangled. It was for them, not him, no matter what they said. It wouldn't last, just like the Musketeers themselves.

Because while his conversations with Treville and Constance had helped, d'Artagnan still couldn't stop worrying about what still felt too painful, too hard, too inevitable. Even if the Paris label dropped them and they got signed elsewhere, the band would probably still disintegrate. Changing labels wouldn't prevent that. Maybe it would be best if he got away now, if he didn't get caught up in or branded by the fall-out, if he wasn't around to witness them agonisingly implode. D'Artagnan had seen that sort of thing happen to people he cared about before, to people he loved.

Athos' hand touched his shoulder, then his neck, careful but firm touches, touches that d'Artagnan didn't flinch away from, but his expression must have made his feelings very clear because Athos paused, his fingers warm under d'Artagnan's chin.

“Whatever we offer is just that – an offer. It's not a contractual condition.”

Athos' gaze was serious, leaving d'Artagnan in no doubt, Athos clearly believed what he said. D'Artagnan nodded slowly, his heart hammering so loudly that he was sure Athos could hear it. Athos leaned in, giving d'Artagnan ample time to pull away. D'Artagnan didn't, he didn't think he could. Athos' breath ghosted over his face, sending shivers through d'Artagnan. Athos was touching him and, God, this was another of d'Artagnan's dreams being offered up to him on a platter. If he left the Musketeers, if they destroyed themselves, at least he'd have the memory of this.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes as Athos' mouth touched his, careful at first, then firmer, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding between d'Artagnan's lips. D'Artagnan moaned, pressing closer, enjoying the constant touch of Athos' hands, how surrounded he felt, how...

Athos suddenly tore his mouth away, a maelstrom of pain and anger in his eyes. D'Artagnan stared back, completely confused.

“How is that possible? You taste of her.”

D'Artagnan's mind blanked, then a dozen little moments knitted together, his own internal ocean of pain and anger volcanically erupting – God, _Milady_ and Athos, fuck, _Athos._ When d'Artagnan opened his mouth, trying to find any words that would make sense of this, Athos punched him.

*

D'Artagnan fought back but Athos was furious and Aramis and Porthos burst through the curtain, hauling him off, shouting at him until Treville appeared, Constance just behind him, both deeply unimpressed.

“No fighting on the bus, you know the rules,” Constance told them, though her eyes were wide with worry when they fixed on d'Artagnan.

“What happened?”

Treville's question left no room for lying – he clearly wasn't going to leave until he got some truthful answers. D'Artagnan hung his head, wiping blood from his face. He was going to have some terrible bruises tomorrow, which would look great unexplained on-stage.

Aramis and Porthos were still holding Athos back, both of them bewildered and angry. Athos seethed, his eyes clouded with deep stark hurt. D'Artagnan couldn't meet his gaze, his own pain felt overwhelming. Milady had lied to him, or at least she hadn't told him everything. Not so clear-cut after all.

“She's not in prison,” Athos said at last, his tone painfully dull. “She's here, in this city, and she's been with d'Artagnan.”

Treville's eyebrows went high, he clearly didn't need to ask who Athos was talking about. “You're sure? I thought...”

“I was told her recent appeal failed,” Athos interrupted, every word a painful bite. “By someone I trusted.”

“There's a lot of that going round,” Porthos muttered, casting a scathing glance d'Artagnan's way.

D'Artagnan swallowed. “She said her name was Milady, I met her the night I met you. She said she liked my work and wanted to recruit me as a solo act. I thought she was...”

He stopped, not wanting to hurt Athos any more. Constance disappeared, returning with a dishcloth of ice for d'Artagnan's face. He still couldn't look at Athos, his lips still burned from that kiss. It looked like it would be goodbye after all.

Treville shifted slightly. “How do we know this is the same woman?”

“I know,” Athos was absolute. “Some things never change.”

He gestured for the others to let him go, which they cautiously did with a lot of warning looks. Then he unbuckled his ever-present wristband and turned to d'Artagnan, demanding his attention.

“Does she have a tattoo?”

D'Artagnan nodded. “On the back of her neck, blue flowers.”

“Like this.”

Athos held out his hand, there around his wrist was a tattoo of familiar small blue flowers. D'Artagnan let out a breath, shaky and numb, his inner pain only increasing. He finally met Athos's eyes.

“Forget-Me-Nots.”

Athos's voice was like a condemnation. “Forget-Me-Nots.”

*

Treville left them alone to talk after that. Constance followed him, casting a final worried glance towards d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan sat on his bunk, miserable and pained by a thousand different emotions. Milady had been set on him leaving The Musketeers, but she'd been helpful too. Why had she gone to prison?

Aramis had produced some beer bottles from somewhere and was sat beside Athos, their shoulders pressed together, Porthos looming over them all.

“Let's hear it,” he said quietly, breaking the stiff silence and standing like he was bracing himself.

Athos lowered the bottle he'd been working on and contemplated the floor for a minute. When he eventually spoke, his voice was raw.

“She was my fiancé, I thought…it doesn’t matter what I thought. Close to the wedding date I got an email from my brother Tom, claiming that my fiancé wasn’t who she said she was, that she had a criminal record and he was convinced that there was more going on that even the police didn't know about. I didn’t believe him, and when I told _her_ about it, she claimed that Tom was jealous because he’d tried it on with her and she’d rejected him.”

Something in d’Artagnan’s chest clenched; he really didn’t like where this story was going.

“Then Tom was attacked one night, he was mugged and stabbed. It could have been a coincidence but the police found his research into my fiancé. She was questioned and once her past was completely uncovered and evidence built up, she was charged for the attack on Tom. She was found guilty.”

D’Artagnan dug his nails into his palm; Aramis brushed a hand across Athos’s knee “Your brother?”

Athos took a long drink from the bottle in his hand, he didn't look at any of them. “Dead.”

Silence stretched between them all. Nobody knew what to say. Eventually Porthos’s gaze flicked over to d’Artagnan.

“You didn’t know?”

D’Artagnan shook his head numbly. “She never said a word about it.”

“Neither did you, about her, not really,” Aramis pointed out.

D’Artagnan smiled terribly, pain squeezing his heart. “She was something uncomplicated.”

When the silence became suffocating, d’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably and drew his bunk's curtain. Whether he was blocking their view or his view, it didn't matter really.

No one disturbed him. There were quiet murmurings and the sound of kissing. Athos's voice was raised once or twice but eventually there was silence. Had they all left the bunks for the front of the bus? Were they talking to Treville, deciding on how to chuck d'Artagnan out of the band?

D'Artagnan's phone buzzed. He dug it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Milady, coquettishly asking when she'd see him again, casually stating that she had a contract with his name on it.

D'Artagnan dropped his phone. She'd skilfully drawn him to the edge, somehow she'd known how to get him to follow her lead. He'd almost toppled over, he'd almost...

D'Artagnan closed his eyes and lay down.

His thoughts rumbled and shrieked with bitter songs begging to be written. He might do that in the morning, he might write something to remember all of this by, this experience. He didn't know where he'd go, his hometown hadn't really been home since his father's death. The band's bus had felt something like home, a very painful thought now.

His thoughts were interrupted when his curtain was abruptly shoved back and Athos pushed his way onto the bunk. D'Artagnan froze, if Athos was going to punch him again, d'Artagnan wanted to be ready.

But no fists went flying. Athos merely tugged d'Artagnan close, slinging an arm around his waist, before his breathing became deeper and even. He'd fallen asleep, without giving any explanation. D'Artagnan could have called for help, or just shoved Athos off the bunk and onto the floor. But he wasn't sure how much longer he was going to be a Musketeer – if they were going to throw him out or if he was going to walk away. He wouldn't be walking towards Milady's contract now though, he'd head for somewhere that wasn't another well of pain and heartbreak.

Meanwhile, Athos apparently needed this close contact and d'Artagnan had done enough to hurt him already. And honestly, d'Artagnan needed this too, on a bone-deep level that took his breath away. Of course, Athos could be gone by morning, nursing a hangover and concealing embarrassment and more fury. Slowly, d'Artagnan slid his fingers down to interlink with Athos' and tried to sleep. It happened surprisingly quickly, any and all tension melting away thanks to Athos' close presence. D'Artagnan told himself, shakily, silently, to enjoy it while it lasted, pain burning at him from the inside out.

At least he had this night. It didn't sound any better the more he repeated it to himself, but it was all he had.

*

Someone was kissing him. D'Artagnan woke with a start, but the kissing continued, Athos, Athos was kissing his back. Was Athos still drunk? Did he think he was in bed with someone else? d'Artagnan tensed, did Athos think he was lying beside his former fiancé?

The kisses stopped abruptly, both of them were frozen. D'Artagnan tried to keep his breathing quiet, his thoughts spinning wildly. What did he do now?

Athos started to withdraw. “You don't want this.”

His heart lurching at Athos' dull tone and at the increasing loss of contact, d'Artagnan quickly reached for Athos' arm. His hand touched Athos's still-exposed tattoo, the blue flowers. D'Artagnan bit his lip hard, tasting the warm copper of blood as he stroked the inked skin.

“I want, I do. This is all too...”

“Complicated.”

D'Artagnan nodded and Athos pressed another kiss to his back. The silence felt more comfortable than before, though d'Artagnan still hadn't come to a decision. He reached for his phone though and sent a message to Milady. After a pause, he showed the screen to Athos. Athos's breath grazed his shoulder.

“For me?”

“For both of us.”

“Now _this_ is a view to wake up to.” Aramis' voice cut into the loaded atmosphere as he pulled aside the curtain, gazing down at them both.

Porthos shouldered him out of the way, gesturing with his phone towards Athos and d'Artagnan. “Got a hotel booked for us. C'mon.”

D'Artagnan blinked up at them, more than a little overwhelmed. “A hotel?”

Aramis bent down to cup d'Artagnan's face and his thumb stroked d'Artagnan's cheekbone in a very non-casual way. D'Artagnan's breath caught.

“We all need it. No expectations, just a few fantasies.”

D'Artagnan turned his head to kiss Aramis's palm. If nothing else, he was grateful for the chance to really talk to them and clear the fog that he could see whenever he thought about the future. Aramis' eyes widened happily and he stroked d'Artagnan's face a final time before kissing Athos surprisingly briefly.

“Breakfast,” Porthos ordered, grabbing Aramis' shirt – for once, he was actually wearing one on the bus.

“That's all you think about, your next meal.”

“Hmm, better that than hearing you break out 'Queen Anne's Lace' again.”

Athos lifted his head to join in, sounding as though it was a conversation they'd had many times before. “We're not performing that, Aramis.”

Amid Aramis' protests, Porthos gave d'Artagnan and Athos a lingering clap to the shoulders each before manoeuvring Aramis away. D'Artagnan turned hesitantly to face Athos, but Athos met his gaze, his hand rising to touch d'Artagnan's chin. The moment felt fragile and so very breakable.

D'Artagnan wet his dry lips, he needed to say _something_. “How can you...you still want me here?”

Athos's touch became firm, refusing to let d'Artagnan look away. “She's very good.”

Yeah, she was. D'Artagnan sighed, thinking briefly of hours spent skin-on-skin, her perfume potent and lingering, her hands skilled at making him choke and moan, all that simple greedy pleasure. He'd joked once that her mouth was a weapon, turned out it really was.

“This is complicated,” continued Athos quietly. “I understand.”

He did, didn’t he? Fuck. D'Artagnan's chest ached. Athos's fingers brushed against d'Artagnan's lips like a kiss. Then Athos was getting to his feet and offering d'Artagnan a hand up. D’Artagnan stared at him for a moment, wanting to remember how Athos looked. He could feel those songs seeping back into his head. He clasped Athos’ hand and felt oddly touched when Athos handed over a Slayer shirt from his own suitcase.

Athos nodded towards the clothes that d’Artagnan had slept in. Right, he probably stank, so d’Artagnan muttered his thanks and beat a hasty retreat to the tiny bathroom. Once he was under the shower’s warm spray, he wrapped one hand around his cock, the other stuffed in his mouth to keep himself silent, and worked himself quickly to a climax, songs and images billowing in his head. It was a release he badly needed, from all the stormy confusion and everything else. Milady didn’t feature at all.

*

Breakfast was cereal, coffee, and tea. Constance looked carefully at d’Artagnan, asking him silently if he was okay. D’Artagnan replied, just as silently, that he didn’t know yet. She put an extra lump of sugar in his tea. Treville eyed him but when d'Artagnan looked back steadily, the manager nodded and continuing going over the schedule for the next few days.

Athos was wedged between Aramis and Porthos, all of them tucking into breakfast with varying degrees of gusto. D'Artagnan couldn't stop sneaking looks at them, though from Porthos's smirk he wasn't being very covert about it. That was okay, wasn't it? D'Artagnan lifted his chin and stared at them for a little longer. He managed not to jump too much when Aramis' foot touched his ankle and stroked once up to his knee. Porthos casually reached under the table and patted d'Artagnan's thigh without lingering too much. The gestures were reassuring, apparently all three Musketeers wanted him to stay.

D'Artagnan didn't quite know how to handle the enormity of that thought so he kept silent and listened to the conversations going on around him. Athos and Porthos were very firmly telling Aramis that they were never going to perform 'Queen Anne's Lace' at a show or record it for an album, no matter how good it was.

“He's got a thing for Louis' wife,” explained Porthos bluntly. “And she fucking thinks she feels the same way.”

D'Artagnan frowned, because that sounded like... “The wife of your record label boss?”

“Complicated, isn't it?” remarked Athos.

When d'Artagnan sharply turned his head to look at the band's leader, Athos stared back with a steady gaze and raised eyebrows, and was that a hint of a smile? Porthos had claimed before that Athos' sense of humour was gallow's humour at best. D'Artagnan now knew exactly what he meant.

He just shook his head at Aramis, not all that surprised by the news. “What happens if it ends badly between you?”

Aramis looked deeply offended. “What do you take me for? I'd never hurt her.”

“You said the same thing about Adele,” Porthos reminded him, scooping up a spoonful of Aramis's cereal.

“She chose him...”

“...Someone else who could have ended our careers if he'd found out where your cock had been.”

The conversation continued to meander warmly, leading to the revelation that not only did Aramis currently enjoy the company of their boss's wife, but that he'd also spent several vigorous months shagging Richelieu’s 'lady friend'. He'd written a few songs about these affairs, very good songs, but the subject matter was abundantly obvious in a couple of them. Porthos announced firmly that Aramis' cock was _not_ going to destroy their careers _._ Athos clinked his coffee mug against Porthos' in silent and meaningful solidarity.

“You haven't got a romance bone in your body,” Aramis huffed.

Porthos grinned. “I can caress a win or two at certain tables.”

“A cheating caress,” pointed out Athos blandly.

Treville held up a hand, stalling any arguments before they really got going. Clearly d'Artagnan wasn't the only one feeling a little punchy.

“You've got a hotel booked, work all of this out there. I want this settled by the next show, I mean it.” He turned to d'Artagnan, handing him an envelope. “Your contract, the label wants it signed by the end of the week or I've been told to start looking for someone new.”

D'Artagnan stared down at the large beige envelope. That was his future right there, a major decision that looked so ordinary and harmless. D'Artagnan swallowed, then startled when Porthos' foot heavily nudged against his.

“You stare any harder, you'll set it on fire.”

“Which wouldn't help at all,” pointed out Aramis, having apparently recovered his good mood.

D'Artagnan's gaze flickered back to the envelope, he felt like he was looking at a coiled snake, not an amazing opportunity. Athos tapped a finger on the table, calling for his attention.

“We've got a meeting soon.”

That snapped d'Artagnan's thoughts sharply into focus. Right, a meeting that might help or hinder his decision. He finished his tea and got to his feet. He paused as Athos joined him, gazing back at Aramis and Porthos who both looked concerned enough to follow them. Athos shook his head, clearly seeing what d'Artagnan did too.

“This won't take long.”

D'Artagnan exited the bus out into the cold morning air, Athos right behind him. He could hear Aramis calling behind him.

“You've got an hour, then we're spreading the word on Twitter that you're both missing!”

Porthos hollered. “There'll be drinks waiting for you at the hotel.”

It was the best thing d'Artagnan had heard all morning.

*

Milady waited for him outside the venue, dressed for the cold in an ankle-length fawn-suede coat. Her hair was long down her back, keeping her tattoo invisible, and she wore leather gloves. She looked completely at ease, as though the world would turn at her say-so. D'Artagnan wondered, needle-sharp, how many men's actions she'd guided without them realising.

Athos wasn't walking beside d'Artagnan, but he wasn't far away, out of sight of course for now. For a strange moment, d'Artagnan wished that he was carrying his guitar. Then he squared his shoulders, he wasn't alone, was he? No matter what he decided, he didn't want to hurt Athos any more than he had already. He wanted to make this right, well, as right as he possibly could.

Milady waited for him to approach and produced a narrow envelope from inside her coat. “Your freedom.”

“A contract?”

Milady laughed softly. “You sound very surprised.”

D'Artagnan managed a smile. “I do, don't I? Treville gave me contract today too.”

Milady rolled her eyes and touched the envelope to D'Artagnan's jaw. “They're so desperate to pull somebody else over the cliff with them.”

She pressed closer and kissed him. D'Artagnan tasted cinnamon and burnt sugar, it made something bitter pool in his stomach. Had she hoped that Athos would taste her on d'Artagnan's lips? She'd definitely hoped to hurt her former fiancé by luring d'Artagnan away. D'Artagnan fists clenched at his side.

Then someone moved beside them and Milady stiffened, pushing away from d'Artagnan to stare wordlessly at Athos. They both wore terrible looks on their faces, the tension crackling between them. D'Artagnan tried to move away but Milady turned to him sharply, her eyes hard and merciless.

“What has he told you?”

There was no softness to her now, but d'Artagnan could see glimmers of hurt hiding behind her fury. Fuck, she and Athos, they'd both been wrecked by this.

His words came out defiant. “The truth.”

Milady did not look impressed. “ _His_ truth.”

D'Artagnan clenched his teeth and took a step closer, his voice quiet and private. “His brother's dead.”

Anybody else would have reared back, Milady only twitched slightly. That confirmed it, d'Artagnan exchanged a glance with Athos and began walking away. Milady's voice followed him.

“He'll tear you apart and leave you with nothing, they all will.”

D'Artagnan didn't pause, he gave them some distance but stayed within sight. The idea was to give them privacy in public so that there were witnesses, just in case. Milady couldn't get to them all, could she? D'Artagnan's heart was thumping loudly. Athos and Milady both looked so tightly coiled, like they were ready to spring away or start throwing punches.

He thought about Milady's words, about Athos' drinking, Aramis' constant romances, Porthos' gambling. Nothing out of the ordinary for a rock band, but d'Artagnan had seen the damage that that behaviour had caused. They took care of each other though, that much was obvious, and d'Artagnan...he, he _wanted_ to be part of that.

It was a thought that made something warm fire through his veins and his posture relax.

He kept one eye on Athos and Milady, taking a picture to send to Porthos and Aramis – _So far, so good_. Then he began making notes on his phone, there were songs stewing in his head from the previous night, re-awoken now and reshaping. He had fragments

_Back to front  
Your kisses wrench silence out of me_

_Gallows beats,dream after dream,_  
There's hope burns waiting for me,  
Live in hope, live longer, for a swing.

D'Artagnan paused, other songs coming to him, The Musketeers' songs, songs that now he thought about it were obviously written by the band about each other. Songs like 'Bus Stop' and 'Who Said We'll Make It Through?' D'Artagnan thought about the lyrics, about the pledges and promises embedded in them, only obvious if you _really_ knew the band.

However The Musketeers chose to deal with the pressure and stress of their lives, they frequently turned to each other as well. Whatever happened, if their record deal dissolved in the future or not, d'Artagnan couldn't see them not staying together. That was a lot clearer to him now. He thought about Athos' kisses and Porthos' hands and Aramis' clever tongue. Maybe he'd been shying away from making a decision but maybe he'd also been shying away from what he'd subconsciously decided already.

Milady stared at Athos's wrist and Athos pulled away, turning his back on her. Milady watched him leave, that raw look on her face again. d'Artagnan still felt a tug towards her, but he pushed it away. She wasn't as uncomplicated as he'd thought, apparently nobody was in The Musketeers's orbit.

Athos headed back to the bus, probably to grab whatever he needed for the hotel which was usefully close to the venue. D'Artagnan followed, his phone and song lyrics safely tucked away in his pocket. Maybe he could deal with the kind of complicated that The Musketeers were, or he could learn to, like they had. He actually wanted to, a lot. Falling over a cliff with them, at least the company would be good and maybe the landing wouldn't be so bad. His fingers clenched reflexively, more song lyrics.

*

The hotel was plush and airy, someone asked for Athos's autograph as he approached the desk. He obliged with a tight smile, the fan didn't ask for a photograph with him.

The receptionist smiled brightly, informing him that the rest of his party had arrived already and that room service was available until midnight and would they like a restaurant booking? D'Artagnan shook his head and signed for a keycard. Athos headed straight for the lift, still tense and silent. D'Artagnan wanted to reach out, Athos didn't exactly respond to touches from Aramis and Porthos, but he accepted them and that said a lot.

D'Artagnan moved closer as the lift flew upwards, his shoulder touching Athos'. Athos didn't pull away. More lyrics ran through d'Artagnan's head and he was unable to halt his smile. Athos caught sight of his expression and arched an eyebrow, he pressed a little closer too.

They exited on the sixteenth floor. As soon as they got to room 208, the door swung open, revealing Porthos stripped to the waist. D'Artagnan's gaze immediately went to Porthos' chest tattoos. His fingers twitched, he was allowed to touch, wasn't he? Porthos grinned and opened the door wider. Aramis was singing, stretched out on the king-sized bed. He smiled when he saw Athos and d'Artagnan.

“No casualties?”

Athos dropped his bag. “No more than usual.”

Porthos cupped a hand to the back of Athos' head and pressed in forehead to forehead. Athos' eyes drifted shut. It seemed like a weirdly intimate gesture, D'Artagnan felt like he should almost look away. Aramis patted the space next to him, a warm challenging look in his eyes. D'Artagnan snorted and promptly lay down, curling towards Aramis who ran a hand down d'Artagnan's arm, his expression quizzical like he was testing the waters.

D'Artagnan appreciated the concern, that he wasn't being pushed, but still, he hadn't shoved any of them away yet, had he? And he really hoped that this wasn't their way of giving him a memorable send-off before they told him that they didn't want him around anymore.

Aramis touched his face lightly to get his attention. “You're very far away.”

D'Artagnan smiled tightly, his thoughts full of Milady and Athos and too many painful lyrics. “It's really complicated.”

Aramis laughed, Porthos and Athos settling down on the bed beside them. “I'd be surprised if it wasn't. Is it _too_ complicated though?”

It was a surprisingly delicate question and d'Artagnan frowned as he thought it through. Athos settled a hand on d'Artagnan's thigh, anchoring him. Athos wanted him there, in the band and sharing their bed too apparently – d'Artagnan really couldn't imagine Athos kissing anyone that he wasn't seriously interested in. The thought made heat pulse through d'Artagnan; Athos wanted him.

“I hope not,” he settled on at last.

Porthos leaned across to stroke a hand along d'Artagnan's jaw. D'Artagnan nuzzled into the older man's touch, Porthos always looked and felt so solid. It was very reassuring. Porthos was made up of a lot of rough edges, and he hadn't revealed why yet. But there was something settled about him too under his skin, his rhythms and beats were the backbone of the band and he flourished on-stage with his fellow Musketeers. D'Artagnan's breath often caught when he looked at Porthos on stage, his ferocious strength and confidence on full display, his dark skin gleaming with sweat. D'Artagnan had had a lot of good fantasies about him.

Now Porthos clambered over Aramis, who complained but snuck a hand between Porthos' legs which Porthos didn't lodge any complaints about. Instead he braced his free hand beside d'Artagnan's head and stared down at him, so much swimming in his dark eyes. D'Artagnan felt mesmerised and breathless.

“No guarantees,” Porthos told him, his fingers stroking at d'Artagnan's jawline. “A promise though, record deal or not, we keep on playing. You too, if you want.”

D'Artagnan let out a breath, Milady's words and his own doubts surging loudly before quietening just as quickly, heat pouring through him instead. He was being offered everything he wanted, would he prefer to be on stage at the big venues that they played now? Yes, of course, that was everything he'd ever dreamed of. Would he still play with The Musketeers if they performed at pubs and bars? Would he still play with them if they were painfully falling apart? D'Artagnan gazed at the other three, knowing the answer like a molten fist to his chest.

How could performing with anyone else, or even solo, ever compare to _this_? The feeling he got with The Musketeers, on and off stage? He couldn't let this go now, no matter how much Athos drank or Porthos gambled or how many problems Aramis' cock caused. He couldn't let go and he didn't want to.

He reached up and sank a hand into Porthos' thick black curls. Porthos' smile became a smirk and descended to press hungrily to d'Artagnan's waiting mouth. Porthos' tongue pressed for entrance, to taste d'Artagnan, and there was a hand - Aramis'? - undoing d'Artagnan's belt. D'Artagnan moaned and lifted his hips, enjoying the burn as Porthos bit at his mouth.

The bed was big enough for all of them and d'Artagnan tried to watch everything as clothes were removed. Aramis laughed and swatted at Porthos' thigh when Porthos pulled Aramis' shirt over his head, intentionally blinding him. Aramis' laughter turned to groans though when Porthos scraped teeth along his ribs and finally tugged the shirt free. Athos lay down behind d'Artagnan and turned his head to kiss him, a repeat of the previous night. Athos pressed more now though, his hand sliding downwards to grasp d'Artagnan's hip.

Athos was letting go, d'Artagnan thought a little wildly. Athos only really let go on stage and that was done with a focus on the music and lyrics, pouring himself into them without really concentrating on the audience. This was different though, this was Athos communicating openly, his fingers and mouth saying _everything_. Of course he was like this with Aramis and Porthos, of course he gave himself over to them. Who else could he completely trust? And he was being just as open with d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan tugged at Athos' hair and thrust his hips back, needing friction. There were hands stroking at his chest, mouths teasing his nipples. It wasn't going to take much, he didn't think he could hold on much longer. He stared at Athos, so close, hoping desperately that his eyes said everything – that he trusted them too. He did, he believed them and God, he needed this, a safe steady place, he needed them, he _wanted_ them.

Athos's hand travelled lower and firmly grasped d'Artagnan's cock. D'Artagnan's body arched dramatically, saying everything. Aramis was singing his way along D'Artagnan's ribs, pausing occasionally when Porthos squeezed at his thigh, his mouth working an impressive mark onto the skin of Aramis' neck. Sometimes someone bumped into somebody else, Porthos swore when his knee got kicked, but there seemed to be a rhythm to their movements, and d'Artagnan felt like he was learning it. He wanted to be fluent.

Athos' mouth moved to d'Artagnan's cheek, then to his jaw. Someone was licking at his cock and at Athos' fingers that were still firm there. D'Artagnan's hips rolled faster. Songs reeled through his head and he couldn't catch them, for once he didn't want to. He could see Aramis reaching to run knowing fingers down Athos' chest, Porthos was grasping his own cock, clearly enjoying the picture everyone was making.

Athos bit d'Artagnan's neck, and d'Artagnan came with a shout.

Athos growled in his ear and d'Artagnan tried to remember how to turn in order to return the favour, but then Porthos and Aramis took over, manoeuvring him onto his back. Porthos pushed his fingers into d'Artagnan's mouth, his chest rumbling with a pleased impatient noise as d'Artagnan sucked and licked. Aramis climbed over d'Artagnan to press on top of Athos, Porthos straddling d'Artagnan and sliding his now wet fingers down Aramis's back and under and oh...d'Artagnan propped himself up to watch. Athos was breathing heavily, shoulder to shoulder with d'Artagnan while Aramis thrusted impatiently and vocally, Porthos handling Aramis with one hand and wrapping the other around his own cock. D'Artagnan's cock twitched, he hesitated a moment, then reached for Athos. Athos' next breath sounded punched-out and he kissed wordlessly at d'Artagnan's nearest shoulder.

“See? Not complicated at all,” panted out Aramis, his words breaking off into a moan as Porthos thrust his fingers in sharply.

D'Artagnan watched and watched, greedy for more, as Porthos spilled over his own hand and over Aramis too. He adjusted his position so that Aramis could lick Porthos' wet hand before Porthos offered it to D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan tried the taste – it was Porthos and Aramis combined really, wasn't it? - as Aramis choked and cursed loudly, emptying over Athos. D'Artagnan tightened his grip reflexively and Athos pushed harder into the circle of d'Artagnan's fingers, taking what he needed. D'Artagnan pressed his mouth to Athos', so that Athos could enjoy the flavour combination too, which Athos did with a keen commitment.

Aramis was moving off of Athos, giving him more room to move, as he argued with Porthos about whose turn it was to clean up. Porthos dug a hand into Aramis' hair, which gained him a appreciative hiss, and muttered something. D'Artagnan couldn't make out what it was, his concentration was elsewhere. He didn't know what to say, he didn't want to break the mood so he kissed and kissed, his hand moving fast until Athos let out a strangled breath and d'Artagnan felt warmth spill over his fingers.

They lay close together, breathing heavily, mouth to mouth. D'Artagnan's thoughts rolled over and everything felt clearer, maybe even less complicated. He must have said that outloud because Aramis laughed and dropped a warm flannel onto d'Artagnan's stomach.

“Yeah, a good orgasm'll do that to you.”

He ran a hand questioningly through Athos' hair which got him a flicker of Athos' eyebrows. Aramis smiled warmly, like his question had been answered, and kissed Athos' hip fleetingly before grasping d'Artagnan's chin to turn him for a kiss. D'Artagnan let out a contented noise, Aramis chuckled and lightly bit d'Artagnan's bottom lip.

“Clean up.”

D'Artagnan grumbled nonsensically but wiped himself clean and then did the same for Athos before throwing the flannel towards Porthos. Porthos's stomach rumbled loudly, Aramis rolled his eyes and dodged a not-quite-halfhearted kick from Porthos. Athos forced himself to sit up, checking his phone. He hadn't covered up his wrist tattoo d'Artagnan noticed. It made something like his heart skip a beat inside his chest.

“You don't eat this close to a show, remember?” Aramis was saying in reply to something else.

D'Artagnan reached for his own phone, wanting to write, wanting to sing. The others didn't seem to expect him to leave. Athos squeezed his arm with a significant glance. None of them were acting as though he didn't belong there with them.

D'Artagnan's smile felt too impossible and wide for his face. “I hear they do room service here all day.”

Porthos kissed him.

*

The gig went well that night, despite all four of the band being hopped up on endorphins. Aramis wore one of d'Artagnan's tour-bought t-shirts with a shit-eating grin and groped him openly on-stage – it was Aramis, that kind of behaviour was normal for him. He sang 'Gallant Heart' in harmony with Athos, as though he was singing it to everyone in the audience.

Athos sweated and sang an aching cover of the Keane song 'Bedshaped', which gave D'Artagnan chills. Athos didn't look too tense, he looked as comfortable and confident as he always did on stage, leading them through gesture and feeling.

Porthos laughed and played hard, unbowed and shameless, licking his lips whenever d'Artagnan caught his eye.

D'Artagnan shared a microphone with Athos on 'Bullet To The Heart', Athos's arm slung around his shoulders. D'Artagnan leaned closer to him, releasing his dad's words and anguish and a lot of his own. The tears probably looked like sweat.

He didn't see Milady in the crowd. He didn't really look.

Treville clapped him on the shoulder when they came off stage and told him that he'd done good work and that he was glad the band was back on an even-keel.

“Well, as even as it ever gets around here,” he remarked.

D'Artagnan clutched the neck of his guitar, adrenaline and something else scorching through him “It works for me.”

Aramis was already signalling to a sultry-looking brunette wearing leather that he'd meet up with her shortly. Porthos snorted and sent a text message, he was probably arranging a card game. Athos already had a beer in his hand, he offered one to d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan pressed the bottle to his temple as he sat down in the the band's dressing room. Something crinkled under him – he dug out the jacket that he'd worn that morning and found that somehow the contract Milady had offered him was wedged into the jacket's left pocket.

Athos looked very unsurprised, only his tense jaw revealing how even a hint of his ex-fiancé affected him. “She's very good.”

D'Artagnan nodded slowly, turning the envelope over. He didn't look at the papers inside, he could smell Milady's perfume though, causing a flash of sense memories – her hair brushing his face, her mouth moving down his body, her skin gliding against his. D'Artagnan paused, and then tore up the envelope and its contents, dropping the pieces into the nearest bin with a hard betrayed glare.

He then concentrated on his phone, on the song he was constructing, currently titled 'Shattered.' Athos didn't say anything, his hands kneading d'Artagnan's shoulder and neck.

When they got back to the hotel that night, d'Artagnan read through his Musketeers's contract. He signed it against Athos's chest.

Another song started in his head, his hands busy exploring the man under him. At some point before boarding the bus the next morning, he found time to tweet a couple of vital new lyrics.

_I can't promise to catch you,  
But the cliff can't take us all._

_**-the end** _


End file.
